


Truth

by fullhousecast



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Character Death, Depression, F/F, Fluff, M/M, SORRY YALL, Sad, Self-Harm, lmao this sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullhousecast/pseuds/fullhousecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like it is in the films.</p><p>It really isn't, Patrick thinks. It’s really romanticized in films and books, to a ridiculous extent. There's no scarlet rubies blooming from virgin skin or salty tears raking down a haunted face. People without the habit really shouldn’t try to speak of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth

**Author's Note:**

> this took a while tbh. kind of sucks. TW for self harm, depression, anxiety, and death. enjoy my home slices

It’s not like it is in the films.

It really isn't, Patrick thinks. It’s really romanticized in films and books, to a ridiculous extent. There's no scarlet rubies blooming from virgin skin or salty tears raking down a haunted face. People without the habit really shouldn’t try to speak of it.

The reality of it is so simple. In Patrick’s case, he’d simply grab his blades out of their hiding place (he kept his in a marching band glove filled with saxophone reeds), slice his thigh a few times, and occasionally dab the cuts while reading a book or watching TV until the bleeding stopped. Sometimes he’d use a dull pocket knife as it caused a different pain, but there wasn't really more than that.

There's nothing poetic about it. There's nothing beautiful about cringing as he pulls scratchy denim over day old cuts. There's nothing beautiful about sitting by the pool in hot clothes, saying that, no, he didn't want to swim, as he watched his family splash around and have fun. It was nothing more than a nuisance.

Patrick doesn't even really know why he does it. Maybe it’s because he’s gay. Maybe it’s because he’s closeted. He’s pretty sure he’d be accepted, that there would be no traumatic homophobe torture that literally every gay character on TV ever goes through, but it could be fear of rejection. He really couldn't justify why he did it, he just kind of did.

Even so, it was like the films sometimes. Kind of. Barely. This means that he would sometimes shake and sob while he did it, and not just because life sucked. Times like this were due to something triggering him into doing it. The trigger was usually something minor. Maybe he had gotten into a huge argument with his mom. Maybe his music theory homework was just so frustratingly difficult that it pushed him into tears and he was just looking for a way to chill out. Sometimes, he just cried. It happens.

You could call Patrick depressed, maybe even anxious. Once again, it wasn't an I’m-constantly-crying-and-wallowing-in-self-pity kind of deal like it was in the films. In fact, Patrick has his moments when he was so ecstatic that you could practically feel it radiating off of him. More often than not, Patrick was just tired. It was a type of sluggishness that made him feel so weak and uncomfortable that he had trouble picking his bookbag up off of the floor or sitting up in bed after sleeping for five hours in the middle of the day. He became so irritable that he would begin to twitch if he attempted to be productive or sit still.

It’s not like Patrick hasn’t sought out for help. He’s been to therapists- two, in fact. The first therapist was an older woman who would respond to almost everything by saying ‘okay’ (In his second session, she had said the word ‘okay’ 432 fucking times. He counted.) The second one was so uncomfortable that he nearly began to cry. He had absolutely zero confidentiality there. His parents were in the room with him for almost the entire session. If he requested for his parents to leave the room for a bit, the therapist would tell them everything he said as soon as they returned. He just wanted somebody to talk to, to tell about his being gay without his parents knowing, to tell someone of his overwhelming urge to die. All he got out of it was a useless appointment and a prescription for overpriced antidepressants. He hasn't seen a therapist since he fourteen.

Patrick had other effective methods to deal with things. He loved playing guitar and singing so much when he was younger. He would pour every emotion into covers of his favorite songs. He would practice for countless hours every day. He had fun- it was a distraction. He was passionate about it.

Then came the guitar group. Patrick was entirely opposed to the idea when his father informed him that he had signed Patrick up for it. No matter how many times Patrick would yell at his father, reminding him that, “I get so anxious that it makes me want to vomit! This is ridiculous!” His father would yell right back. “This is great opportunity for you, Patrick! There are three boys and one girl all around your age in the group. You’ll learn more than you ever could on your own! You might even make friends! You’re going.”

Patrick ended up being right, of course. With almost every lesson came a crippling anxiety attack in front of everybody, even though the other kids were very nice to him and made many attempts to reassure him that he had nothing to worry about. They sat in a circle and played songs that he absolutely hated. Despite his love for singing, Patrick never volunteered to do so. Every major vocal piece went to Andrew, a snobbish blonde boy with a soccer mom that would never stop bragging about his achievements. With all of this combined, Patrick began to hate the music he previously loved so much. His daily hours of practice were quickly cut to maybe one half-assed practice session once every two weeks an hour before the lesson started, if even that. He had none of the tab memorized. It was absolutely miserable.

There was only one thing that he could sort of look forward to. There was a boy- Garrett, the lead guitarist- that was cute in some sort of way that Patrick couldn’t quite pinpoint. He was sixteen, two years older than Patrick was at the time, with dark curly hair and wire framed glasses. He was so kind, always trying to include Patrick into the conversation or complimenting his taste in music. When Patrick tried to respond, he would look at the dirty carpeted floor and quietly stutter out what resembled a thank you. Then, he’d pull out his phone and pretend he had somebody to respond to.

The guitar group never worked out for him. Neither did Garrett.

Enter Pete.

Pete was the best thing to happen to Patrick. Patrick had met Pete when he was nineteen. Pete was twenty four. He was a rowdy and excitable thing, with olive skin and flat-ironed hair that curled around the nape of his neck. His eyes were a deep brown and had kohl smudged around them more often than not.

Pete made Patrick feel alive again.

Patrick still remembered their first date, if you could call it that. They had sat in his basement and played Smash Bros on his GameCube. As Patrick was close to beating Pete’s Pichu for the fourth time in a row (Patrick absolutely annihilated with the Ice Climbers), Pete frustratedly quit the match, causing the announcer to boom “NO CONTEST” in his echoing voice. Patrick looked at Pete, brow raised.

“Dude, I’ve been playing as Pichu, and only Pichu, since Melee came out. That’s a pretty long time. I officially dub you the Smash Bros king.”

Patrick snickered. “Dude, that’s because Pichu is literally the worst character in the game. He causes damage to himself every single time he uses his good attacks. He’s useless, admit that he sucks ass.”

Pete gasped in mock offense. “Don’t you dare insult my child!” He demanded, playfully socking Patrick in the arm. “So, what do you do for fun?”

Patrick went back to the main menu and started a round with a CPU, using Mr. Game and Watch rather than his usual Ice Climbers. “Eh. Nothing.”

Pete watched as Patrick easily defeated the computer-controlled Luigi on screen. “Come on, what are your interests? Shit, watch out for that green fireball.”

Patrick hissed out a quiet “fuck” as said fireball hit him full on. “I used to- fuck- like, play shitty guitar and sing a little when I was thirteen or fourteen- God fucking damn it!” he answered, clearly more invested in the game than the conversation.

With that, Pete reached behind himself and popped the GameCube’s disc drive open, causing an error message to show up on the small TV screen. “Dude, what the fuck!” Patrick half-yelled, pissed that he didn’t get to finish beating that godforsaken Luigi.

Pete grabbed his hand and pulled him up to his feet, clearly excited about hearing of Patrick’s talent. “Well then, I hope you don’t suck at it, which I highly doubt is the case, because you're playing for me right now. Oh, and you're singing."

Patrick tried to free himself from Pete's grip as he dragged him up the stairs. "Hell no! I haven't played or sang since my early teens! I don't even know if my guitar still has all of its strings!"

"If it doesn't, you'll just have to sing it acapella!"

He was so fucked.

\--

When they made it to his room, Patrick managed to dig his guitar out of the back of his closet. It was a horribly shitty guitar, a blue knockoff Ibanez that he had bought for thirty dollars on Craigslist. Its body was quite small, clearly made for a younger person. The stings were on their last leg, horribly rusted and nearly snapped around the tuning pegs. 

Patrick rustled through his old tabs, choosing a random song near the bottom of the yellowed and water damaged folder. Pete's face lit up when he saw Patrick's selection. Patrick plucked a string. As expected, it was so horribly out of tune that it barely resembled the noise of a guitar.

"It's in drop D tuning," Pete murmured excitedly into his clasped hands as he watched Patrick turn the pegs and occasionally pluck the stings to test their tune.

"I know it's in drop D, I can fucking read!" Patrick shot back, clearly pissed. He was immediately ridden with guilt when he saw Pete's face fall. "I'm sorry, Pete." Patrick said softly. "I'm just super nervous. I haven't touched a guitar in years and I'm a little embarrassed."

Pete gave a little smile, putting a hand on Patrick's knee. "You'll be great."

Patrick smiled back, blushing.

Then, he played.

For the duration of the song, Pete watched Patrick, his gaze alternating between Patrick's hands and his face. Patrick was completely absorbed into the song.

It was absolutely perfect. He was absolutely perfect.

Pete was in love.

When the song was finished, Pete took the guitar out of Patrick's hands and set it on the floor next to his bed. He then took Patrick's shoulders, urging him to lie back onto his pillow.

Pete climbed on top of Patrick, placing very gentle kisses to his forehead, both of his cheeks, his nose, and finally, his lips. "You're absolutely perfect," he cooed lovingly.

Pete was Patrick's first kiss. He was his first time.

It was safe to say Patrick was in love, too. 

\--

Pete decided Patrick's voice needed to be heard.

Ever since that night, Patrick had picked up guitar again. He had loved it just as much as he did before his childhood music class. Now, they sat on the couch in their newly shared apartment, eating Chinese food and watching Jimmy Kimmel Live. 

"So, like," Pete slurred around a far too large bite of Lo Mein, "I was thinkin' that we should start a band or some shit like that."

Patrick, who was about to eat a piece of fried tofu, dropped the food back into the container and looked at Pete quizzically. "Elaborate," he requested in an even voice. He was used to Pete's ideas by now.

"Hear me out, babe. You'd play guitar- rhythm or lead, whatever floats your goat- and be the lead singer. I can contribute my terrible lyrics and shit bass playing. I know these two dudes who absolutely kill on guitar and drums who are looking for a band to be in. This could totally work, sweetheart."

Patrick could never resist the pet name 'babe'. Pete knew it, too. 

\-- 

Pete was right about these two guys. They were both complete monsters on their respective instruments. 

Their newly employed drummer, Andy, was quiet for the most part. He was very polite and respectful to those who deserved politeness and respect. When he was behind a kit, however, he came alive, being as loud as he pleased.

Joe, on the other hand, was a pretty chill dude. He had short brown hair and a ball captive ring clasped around his lower lip. His laid back nature completely disappeared as he performed, throwing himself across the stage in graceful spinning jumps and rhythmically banging his head to the music.

They had only played a few shows together when they got their name. It was drunkenly thrown out by someone in the crowd.

"Fallout Boy!" shouted the person a bit too loudly. 

"Fallout Boy?" Pete reiterated into the microphone, "Like in the Simpsons?" A few people in the crowd gave noncommittal noises in favor of the name.

Joe stepped up to the mic, chuckling bemusedly. "I don't know, I kind of like it. We might get copyright charges, though. What if we, like, add a dash or a space or some shit like that? Fall Out Boy. Fall. Out. Boy." He put a pause between each word to emphasize it.

"Fall Out Boy!" Pete shouted into the microphone. "All in favor?"

As the crowd cheered in support of the name, Pete gave a loving smile to Patrick, rubbing his arm while doing so.

\--

Fall Out Boy was a huge success.

The boys became close, nearly brothers. They did a lot together, whether it be arguing over which Kardashian was the best to being forced to watch The Human Centipede by Pete. He paid the price for it when Joe threw up on his suede couch and Patrick was too scared to drive down country roads at night for at least two months.

A time that really stood out to Patrick was an interview over the band's tattoos.

It's no secret that Patrick isn't known for tattoos. When the others were done discussing the meanings over their various tattoos, the interview was basically over.

"I'm assuming you have no tattoos, Patrick?" The interviewer asked curiously, smiling.

Patrick smiled back. "Just one, actually." He stood from his seat, pulling down the waistband of his pants from his left hip a bit, showing it off.

"It's really nothing special to look at. It's kind of shitty and is a bit faded after the years, but it literally means the world to me." Patrick smiled down at the small amount of ink. "It says χρυσαφένιος. Means 'golden' in Greek." Patrick drew a shaky breath. "Pete actually did this on me. He used a sewing needle wrapped in thread and some sort of ink that definitely wasn't made for tattooing. He said it was called a stick and poke. Y'see, I really used to struggle with, erm, self harm. When Pete found out, I was expecting him to like, flip his shit or something, but he just smiled at me and kissed all of the scars. After that, he just said, 'Can I give you a tattoo over these?' Haven't self harmed since," He finished, looking at Pete to his right. Pete gently kissed the side of his face, letting himself linger for a second.

"I love you," Pete whispered.

\--

Pete and Patrick got married in 2014.

The ceremony was absolutely beautiful, with Patrick being walked down by his father (turns out his being gay didn't cause rejection). Pete was at the end of the aisle in tears. You big sap, Patrick thought.

Andy and Joe each gave a speech. They were both a bit cliche, but enjoyable nonetheless. They ate typical American wedding food and had a typical tear filled first dance. When everyone was having fun on the dance floor, Patrick got a playful threat from one of Pete's adorable friends, Meagan Camper.

"You'd best treat Pete right, Y'hear me, Stump?" She demanded in mock sternness, tapping a perfectly manicured finger to the middle of his chest.

He smiled back, pulling her into a hug. "You got it, baby doll." When the hug was over, Patrick grabbed her shoulders, lowering his voice. "Now, I'm not throwing a bouquet tonight, but just so you know, you have a metaphorical bouquet from me now. Take this as a sign, go ask Elisa to marry you."

Meagan glanced over at her girlfriend, Elisa Yao, who looked absolutely radiant with her tight ringlets and bright red lips. Suddenly nervous, she turned back to Patrick. "I don't know if I can do it."

"If Pete could work up the balls to do it, you can. We've been planning this for well over a month. You haven't been carrying that ring in your handbag all night for nothing, have you? You can do it, honey. Go!"

As Meagan dropped to one knee, Elisa practically squealed in delight, nodding her head as she clasped her hands over her mouth and cried tears of joy.

Pete walked up to Patrick's side, clinking his champagne glass against Patrick's and taking a sip.

\--

In the summer of 2017, Pete got his first headache.

Well, clearly not his first headache ever, but the worst one of his life. It was almost crippling. He nearly fell over from it. It was an intense pressure, lasting for only about a minute, and then it was gone. He didn't tell Patrick.

After the fourth headache, he did. 

"It's probably chronic migraines," Patrick said worriedly. "Your symptoms basically match to a T. Even so, you're going to a neurologist. I'll make an appointment.

Pete scoffed. "Patrick, it's probably just the flu. If not that, the constant loud music we're always around. You don't need to take me to a neurologist."

"No complaining, you're going," Patrick said as he stood from the couch and pressed a kiss to the crown of Pete's head.

Pete pretended not to wince from it.

\--

"Glioblastoma."

That single word that the doctor muttered was the one to change their lives.

"Glio what?" Patrick asked nervously, not quite catching the word.

"Glioblastoma," the doctor repeated. "It's-"

"Fast growing tumors. One of the most aggressive cancers. It forms in the brain, mostly, but sometimes it can be in the spinal chord. It's predominant in men over fifty. God, what are the chances of me getting it?" Pete cut off, tone more confused than scared. Patrick fell back in his chair, hands instantly going to his mouth. He lot out a sharp sob. "What?" Pete asked, smiling a bit. "I had to do a report on it in 11th grade science. Sue me."

"He's right, unfortunately," The doctor confirmed. "Even though it's extremely hard to detect in its early stages, we caught it before any big tumors could form. With the right treatment, we could definitely rid his brain of all cancer cells."

Patrick was absolutely sobbing at this point, hiccuping and wailing. His throat was so tight it hurt. He felt numb.

"Patrick. Patrick. Baby. It'll be okay, we'll get through this."

Patrick looked at Pete through his fingers, seeing that signature Wentz smile. 

"They say hope is a cure all, right?" Pete asked, grabbing Patrick's hand. "I'm willing to stay hopeful if you are. You heard the good doctor, we can beat this."

His crying lessening but not subsiding, Patrick tried to smile. "Yeah. Yeah, let's try."

\-- 

Patrick stayed hopeful. Pete didn't.

In the first few months, Pete was very sure that he would pull through. The pastel blue hair that he sported in early 2017 fell out from the chemo. Even so, Pete just laughed and said, "Look, Patrick! I'm 2007 Britney Spears!' Patrick couldn't help but laugh, too.

The fans were devastated when they heard the news, but quickly changed the tone to keep Pete happy. Fans who were struggling with cancer like Pete contacted him, sharing their stories and helping him stay hopeful in their situation.

Things seemed to be looking up.

That was until the chemo failed.

Then the radiation after that.

Then the cannabis oil.

Then the major removal surgery.

There was no doubt that Pete was going to die. He showed it, too.

Patrick tried to keep Pete happy, but nothing was working anymore.

No matter how hard Patrick tried it never worked.

"I brought you a mocha from Starbucks, Pete!"

"No thanks. Chemo made me sick."

"Hey Pete, I picked up the new Smash Bros game! How about we re-enact our first date?"

"Can't. Flashing lights make my eyes hurt."

"Hey baby, Meagan and Elisa want to come and see you tomorrow! That alright?"

"I might not even be alive tomorrow." 

"Hey, sweetie! What are you looking at on your phone there?"

"Nothing much. I'm researching the Kübler-Ross model of grief. The stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Isn't that the truth? I'm moving onto accept my death now, I think." 

"Pete, don't-"

"Patrick, I'm dying. I'm sorry, love. It's going to be over soon."

\--

The gathering at Patrick's house after Pete's funeral was quiet.

There was the typical "I'm so sorry" and "Here, I made you a cobbler". Patrick dully said thank you to everything. When everyone left, Patrick threw the meals so graciously provided by the mourners into the garbage. He had no need.

That night, Patrick locked the door to their bedroom and settled down on the couch to sleep. He couldn't be in that room- his and Pete's room.

When Patrick rustled through the drawer in the table next to him to find a pair of reading glasses, he had found them again. After twenty years, he had found them again.

There they were, in the same old dirtied marching band glove, hidden among saxophone reeds. There were only two of them, rusted and aged after all of the years. He pulled one out, examining the dark marks on the blade. 

Lowering the waistband of his pants on the left hip, he ran his finger over the faded tattoo one last time.

Then, he sliced right through it.

It really wasn't like it was in the films. No tears, no scarlet rubies.

χρυσαφένιος. His golden boy was gone.


End file.
